The Forty Seventh (Waiting for You)
by Zinfandelli
Summary: So Pitch does a bad. Pitch does a real big bad. Hah. Jack suffers the consequences, or Jack just plain suffers. But he's cool with it. He's always cool with it. Sandy won't be cool with it though, not when he finds out, and he will find out. Is that too vague? This is the story of Pitch being forced to recognize his feelings. He is very lucky they are both immortals.
1. A Turning Point

What had he done?

This was unbelievable. This couldn't happen.

Jack wasn't supposed to let this happen. He was stronger than this, faster than this. Why hadn't he dodged, damnit!

No. No!

Gasping his disbelief down the Nightmare King rushed to his downed partner. The sight struck him all the more as his previous assurance that Jack could take anything thrown at him shattered. He shivered in his own fear and folly. He unwittingly began to trust the kid so much...and for what? To kill him!

He killed him.

He killed Jack.

Pitch Black finally won over the guardians….

He should be maniacal with laughter and happiness at this victory. He could only scowl.

Gingerly landing in the mud, his sandy platform disappeared effortlessly. God this wasn't mud, it was a bloody soup. Jack was in the center. Pitch's knees gave and he squelched into the muck next to the body. It wasn't freezing. It should be freezing. _Why aren't you freezing it, Jack_?

What could he do? What should he do?

Hide the body.

Like a guilty thief? Hide the evidence? His face contorted as he forced himself to admit….this was exactly what he was. The Guardians would have his own head for this. He should leave now and prepare his forces for his final fight.

His final fight. He lamented aloud at the implications. No more. He would have no more duels, or battles, or sparring matches. They flew from his grasp as he cut down his friend. His _friend_. Jack. Oh Jack.

Pitch punched his fist into the mud sinking it in up to his forearm. His eyes felt hot and hazy and the injuries he received in the fight became blaringly obvious as they made their little hurts known. No physical pain could, however, compare to what he was feeling wash over his mind.

It was all Jack's fault! It _is_ his fault! That little brat's fault! He was the one who relentlessly barged into Pitch's life.

He was the one who wrenched feelings long buried back into existence. He was the one who…who gave him laughter. Gave him fun. Gave him some form of existence above the wretched.

He was the one who he lost.

He tried to wrench his fist from the muck, and with a little more effort it cracked and released him. His lungs stopped. The mud, _cracked_? Mud doesn-It's too hot fo-_Jack_!

The mud covering both of them was degrees cooler and Pitch hadn't even noticed. He was so caught up in his sudden and shocking grief he ignored the physical. His eyes hawked onto that body and he watched not even daring to breathe.

Small fronds of poorly laced frost ebbed and flowed across the surface of the goo. The patterns were off, they were horrendous and looked like a 3-year-old's handy-work, but they were there. The blood around the sprite's neck was clotting with cold. Mud was drawn in and the ice was a mixture of nasty browns and reds and leaf litter and twigs and other debris from the forest floor.

Pitch's breath came back in waves as he realized what was happening. Just like in the Andes Jack's ability was trying to heal him, even as the kid was unconscious. He sat in the sludge and watched speechless. His hand reached out before he could stop it and he gently plucked a twig from the slowly solidifying cast around Jack's neck.

He then noticed that the sprite still had his staff in hand too. A wave of relief flooded his mind at the sight and he felt his tensed shoulders relax. The staff was encrusted in Jack's fist by its own icy cast. Pitch found himself almost smiling at the unconscious gesture.

As his knees started to go numb from creeping cold, Pitch found he was faced with another crisis. What does he do now? Should he just leave Jack here to awake frozen in a block of mud? Could Jack get out? No. That was a foolish notion. This climate was far too warm to keep the ice casts from melting. Jack would need someplace cold. Should he drop him off on a mountain top somewhere? A reasonable solution.

No.

He owed the boy too much to remain so indifferent. And what of the guardians? Well three of them he hoped he didn't need to worry about. Sanderson however? The little annoyance knew of Jack and his agreement, and while he tolerated it to an extent this was obviously on a whole different level. Pitch understood that Jack met with him once a month like he did Pitch. Jack even started showing up between their duels, arms laden with first-aid supplies that Sandy foisted on him complaining that he had nowhere to keep such things. Judging by the breaks between fights and Jack showing up without invitation to dump bandages into Pitch's lair he judged he had a week buffer before Sanderson came searching for the boy. He hoped that would be enough.

Ah! The first-aid supplies! Pitch nearly laughed at this unwitting forethought of Jack's. With Sanderson's help Pitch had acquired a pretty sizable stock. There was bound to be something in there to help the situation.

His eyes re-focused on Jack's face. The boy's mouth hung open and his eyes weren't completely closed, showing the whites. He looked for the world a complete corpse. The ice however was starting to solidify around him, the mud beginning to encase his body as its reflexes did their best in such climate and condition. Gingerly Pitch dug his hands into the mud worming his fingers underneath Jack trying to get a hold of his body to lift him out.

With a huge squelch he flipped Jack's body out of the muck and onto his lap. He was heavy with ice and stiff as a board. Pitch wryly thought it was sort of fitting. Carefully, he began to chip away the access ice that wasn't near Jack's head or hand. He left everything around his shoulders intact for fear of shattering the natural cast. The ice had solidified the back of his head down his spine and across his shoulders. It crept up his chin and cheeks and his ears were completely encased, it clutched down his chest, stiffened in the fabric of his hoodie and even began to encase the bits of his staff that got too close.

An eternity seemed to pass as Pitch worked what he could off the boy. Once mostly freed from the slushy sludge, Pitch found he could manipulate the chill body more easily. He cradled Jack in his arms carefully holding him under his knees and as gingerly as possible under his head. He stood slowly and once on his feet opened a shadowy portal back to his home.

Next obstacle. Where to put him? He needed cold. His home was rather chill, more-so than in years past (he blamed Jack and his wind for that) but it was still above freezing and Pitch assumed something sub-zero would be most beneficial.

They were also filthy. Jack and he dripped mud and he left trailing foot-prints behind him as he began to make his way to his wash-room after only a second of hesitation.

Pitch called it a wash-room but it only actually resembled one in the vaguest sense of the term. Water poured and dripped from the black rocks and cracks in a continuous cascade all along one crumbly wall. Relaxing trickling sounds made a constant background noise. Natural basins carved into the rocks from eons of erosion conveniently formed multiple sinks at various levels and closer to the floor pools and tubs got a continuous supply of fresh chill water. The room was rather large and on the other side away from the natural rock water fixture sat a large copper bathtub upon a pedestal with a gilt metal aqueduct leading from the falls to the tub and a few spindly black tables holding various amenities in case the Nightmare King desired a warmer soak. Not that any of this detail could be seen, it was impossibly dark. There were no windows or candles, what need Pitch of light when he could see perfectly well already?

He swept over to the cascades first then changed his mind and went for the bathtub instead. Laying Jack down on the floor He quickly did a once over of his stiffly frozen body. He'd have to cut off what he could of the hoodie and sheath, Jack wouldn't be please if when he woke up, but Pitch could always get him another one.

Stepping away from the boy, Pitch stood up straight and quickly did away with his own soiled clothes. He turned swiftly from Jack and went to a basin to wash his hands and splash his face and hair clean. He rinsed his own oozing cuts clean before new shadowy garments absently formed across his back and materialized on his momentarily naked body. He forwent the flowing robes now, since they would get in the way, for a simple ensemble of loose black pants under a lightweight black tunic that belted with a simple cord. He judged he was clean enough and reached his hand back into shadows to withdrawal a small knife, then a second time for a stack of neat plush black towels.

Setting the towels down on a dry rock he knelt over jack with the knife. Pitch carefully chipped away some of the ice to get a better angle for the blade and he cut away Jack's black hoodie and leather sheath. The boy's arm that clutched the staff had become frozen into the mass around his shoulders and Pitch gently cracked his hand and staff free. He lifted his body up into a sitting position to get at the back and efficiently removed the muddy rags. Discarding the knife back to the shadows Pitch laid Jack back on the floor and carefully removed the boy's ancient pants. He threw them in a heap in the corner for washing later and turned back to Jack.

Then he paused.

First he had to take a moment to realize he couldn't just simply rinse the kid off…Jack would probably freeze himself into a pool, not to mention his body was remarkably small. He needed warm water. Then it couldn't be too warm else he'd risk the danger of melting the cast around Jack's neck and cracking that awful stupid why-didn't-you-dodge wound back open, his skin was so white. Pitch would probably only be able to sponge off most of the mud, gods, his face was so innocent.

The next thing he knew he found his fingers in muddy frozen hair.

Amazing.

Since when was his control so lacking? Quickly pulling his hand away Pitch stood, draped a towel over Jack's hips, and went to the bathtub maneuvering the sluice into position for it to fill. He grabbed his flint and steel and worked at lighting the fire in the dais under the tub to distract his mind.

He refused to turn back around until absolutely necessary.

Thank even the moon that Jack was unconscious else he'd never be able to bring himself to perform such feats of kindness. Just a short decade ago he would have given anything to wield such power over his foe. The change he found in himself happened so fast he almost had whiplash. A decade of companionship in the face of eons of loneliness and look how easily he fell. Pitch laughed to himself as he shut the water off and watched the coals glow below.

And now? Now he was tempted! He was actually tempted into acts long thought beyond him. Him! Charmed. By a child no less. A child he nearly beheaded today.

Pitch gripped the side of the tub and exhaled heavily bringing himself under control.

Quickly, professionally, he went and scooped Jack up. He sat down and positioned the boy's body in his lap while grabbing a sponge from a table. Dipping it in the warm water he promptly washed Jack's muddy feet and free hand. He pointedly avoided anything more intimate lest his composure crack. He reached for a towel to wipe the water off before it froze on his skin and sighed when they were out of reach. Commanding a shadow he retrieved them and quickly patted that pristine white skin dry.

Next he gripped the staff and connected hand and broke all the ice off. He gripped Jack's lax fingers around the staff as he rinsed the muddy ice away with warm water. He cleaned the hand, removed bits of the hoodie that were left stuck in the ice and wiped the skin clean of all dirt. He held the arm out once he was done and watched it for a moment. Ice slowly began to restructure around Jack's fingers and when Pitch felt his own digits begin to freeze into it he removed them and watched the ice form a protective barrier around fist and conduit. Helping the process Pitch dripped cold water on Jack's fist further solidifying the crystals and dripping icicles. He broke off the jagged points and gently set the hand and staff across Jack's stomach.

He went to work next on his head adjusting their position. Carefully he cradled Jacks head in his lap and began to sponge warm water over the ice to melt it ever so much to get maybe a little of the nasty red and brown out. The water running into the cracks in the floor was dark with sediment and blood and Pitch worked for a long time melting away the ice.

After maybe a half hour of careful tending he could actually see the gash through the crystalline brace. Removing the left over bits of hoodie and leather up here, he cleaned off the ice around Jack's cheeks and ears and thawed out his hair as best he could. But that wound. Pitch was no stranger to injuries or casualties, but this. Jack was alive under there. Jack was alive with a nearly severed head. He wasn't breathing but the ice was still forming, his skin was still unnaturally cold. It was a horrific sight that not even the Nightmare King himself could stare at forever.

Then it struck him. He never checked…Quickly Pitch placed his palm over Jack's bare chest and held his breath. There was no heartbeat. Did Jack's heart ever beat? The kid bled like a mortal so it must beat right? Was Pitch really cleaning a corpse? He growled in response to his own question and forced the thoughts from his mind. He would deal with those ideas in a week.

Quickly, to hide his renewed guilt, Pitch began to squeeze cold water onto the nearly exposed neck wound. It froze swiftly forming a new cast. A new crystal clear (some red and mud was still left underneath) neck brace. He gently dripped the water over his neck and shoulders breaking away the icicles that formed so Jack wouldn't freeze himself to the floor or Pitch's lap. He finished up by rinsing out Jack's hair a few more times and towel drying it.

There.

Hardest part over.

Pitch lifted the prone form once again into his arms and concentrated briefly before shadowy black clothing for Jack materialized on his body. His chest was left bare but pants replaced the towel. Now for someplace cold.

He went for the empty room right off of his own and quickly refurnished it with a swath of pillows. Setting Jack amongst them Pitch had to use both hands to form the next shadowy portal. He concentrated and soon the ceiling opened up directly to the sky. This was a risky gesture for he had to use the arctic since it was late September and the sun should just be setting. The twilight should be enough darkness for him to tolerate and the temperature was already chilling the room adequately. Pitch just hoped no spirits wandered too far into the frozen wastelands to find this direct opening into his lair.

There. Done.

Jack was taken care of to the best of his abilities. Hopefully he woke up soon and could make use of all that first-aid supplies himself. Hopefully he woke up within the week so the Sandman wouldn't come snooping. Hopefully…he woke up.


	2. Breath and Ice

He sat and waited for two days. Two days before giving up. Jack wasn't waking up and he couldn't sit here doing nothing. He was restless, anxious, and wanted something, anything, to happen. So he resumed his usual activities to remove his mind from the situation. And if kids woke from amorphous terrors of ice and blood it wasn't his fault.

It hadn't helped in the least.

After another day of that and he fell back into his room. Pacing. He was pacing now waiting for Jack to wake up. Pathetic. His worry and concern was pathetic. Him, the Nightmare King, worried for some bratty kid.

He sighed heavily. No…Jack wasn't just some kid anymore. Bratty to be sure, but not just some spirit passing by. He had agreed to be friends (he had to keep reminding himself) and though he never had one of those to speak of he felt he needed to try a little to treat him differently, better even. He was no longer ignorant of what their fights did to him, for him. They were a source of great pleasure. They were a glorious release of tension that left him feeling warm and light nearly the whole month after. Expending such physical force helped his mind to calm during the peaceful moments and he learned to embrace the lulls now as almost equally refreshing.

Things in his life had started to look so much less bleak. The blackness didn't seem so oppressive. His control was clean and strong, his remaining armies of nightmares and fearlings had long since regained absolute fealty to his power. He was stronger now definitely. His hordes did not compare to that Easter's mustering and his personal power would never reach such heights again but he oddly did not mind. Pitch thrived off of two things, fear and belief, and while his fear mongering was a fleeting temporary thing amid human minds he found he had steadily amassed his own pool of believers. He tenderly coaxed the lurking fears that were repressed by good dreams and memories after Easter back into small nagging things within the minds of children. Now, 10 years later he was already reaping the benefits as those kids, now teenagers, passed on their fears as harassing horror stories to younger ears. The spiteful teens were practically doing his job for him within their own little realms of influence and as older brothers teased sisters over monsters in the closet Pitch smiled warmly and obliged them with an odd creak in the hinges to further drive the belief home.

This was all thanks to Jack in a way. He was barely back under control when the sprite fought him the first time. He lulled himself into believing he was so weak the Guardians would pay him no heed as he tried to recapture his mutinous army. Jack was obviously not in on the idea and challenged him as soon as he found him and thoroughly ground his body and pride into the mud. That first retreat was indeed bitter…but it did something to him. His anger was monstrous and renewed; his own fear vanished under the weight of purpose. That very first loss gave him his fight back and banished the self-loathing that was his own undoing. He began to resume his old work and tried to regain his long forgotten purpose he tried-

Help me!

No! no no no NO. Not again! Help!

The terror nearly gagged him it hit so fast.

I can't! Emma! No-Help! Drown—Can't BREATHE! Help!

Pitch rushed to the room, slammed the door open, nearly knocking it off its hinges. Jack!

No, oh god no! Co-co-old help!

He was awake. Jack was awake! His free hand was scrabbling at his neck, his fingernails scraped stiffly against the ice casting it. His eyes were wide and rolling in terror unfocused and wild, his mouth open and gaping in a silent breathless scream. Jack was awake but he wasn't present at all.

Pitch cautiously approached the bed unsure of what to do. He could read the fear plain as you please but it was irrational. Jack didn't need to breathe, he was here conscious without having gasped one breath in three days. Pitch watched as he broke his nails on his ice, started scraping the skin off scratching at it. Quickly he grabbed Jack's hand and held it fast. It was stiff and cold. The fingers were cut but no blood oozed from the wounds. Jack tried to wrench his hand away but had no strength to do it. His panic mounted.

"Jack!" No recognition.

"Jack!" His other hand wrapped in the staff swung out and smacked against the wall. The ice cracked. Pitch tried to reach for it to save the cast but the hand wailed against the stone again completely shattering the glove holding his hand to the staff. Pitch managed to get ahold of the wayward fist before he could drop the staff and held his fingers to it certain that the contact was necessary.

No! I'm dying! Dying! I don't! No, help!

I don't want to die!

"Jack Frost!" Pitch shouted in his face. He felt the hands twitch in his grip. He watched those blue eyes begin to roll back in his head. "Oh no you don't! You stay awake!" He released the staff hand quickly and moved up to pat at Jack's cheek to try and keep him conscious.

The boy's mouth gaped open silently forming words Pitch couldn't read. Icy tears crusted in the corners of his eyes and slushed down into his hair.

"Jack?" Pitch's hand moved up to his forehead pushing his hair back. He felt Jack's hand in his grip relax ever so slightly but it was still stiff. His whole body seemed stiff and frozen. Fear still rolled off of him so heavily Pitch was beginning to feel drunk on it. Jack's eyes slowly closed and his mouth relaxed into a slack half open position.

"Hey! Jack!" Pitch tapped on his cheek more insistently. "Wake up, damnit." He heard a soft whump into the pillows.

The staff had fallen from his grip. Pitch squeezed that hand tighter, almost smacked Jack across the face.

"Jack Frost, so help me, if you don't wake up…"

Jack's fingers squeezed his. His eyes shot back open and momentarily his terror spiked dramatically making Pitch gasp. Then the boy's eyes found his and went wide with a whole different kind of fear. He was afraid of Pitch and the boogeyman was at a loss. He didn't know whether to feel giddily happy or disappointed that here is where the boy finally found his fear of him. Releasing his hold on Jack's hand and face Pitch sat back on the bed and held his hands up palms out in a surrender motion.

Jack watched and confusion traced his brow and his lips moved as if to speak but no sound came. His fingers shot up to his mouth then felt down to his chin finding the ice cast around his neck. Worry and distress painted his features as he scraped at the ice for a moment before tenuously curling his fists. Before Pitch could comprehend his actions Jack beat at the ice trying to break it.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?!" Pitch screeched and tried to restrain his wrists again.

Jack avoided his fingers and smacked at the brace twice more before the structure audibly cracked. A fissure ran up the side and Jack's fingers went weak and Pitch gripped them once more.

"Are you insane?! That's the only thing keeping your lousy head on your shoulders."

The boy's only response for a moment was his eyes squeezing themselves shut and his teeth gnawing on his tongue. Pitch imagined if he could breathe he'd be screaming. Jack next tried to pull his hands from Pitch's restraints once again but he wouldn't let go. Stiffly and shakily Jack reached his foot up and tried to push Pitch from his bed. The man wasn't moving.

Jack seemed to have regained his senses but Pitch couldn't fathom what would possess him to injure himself more. The boy went lax in his hands once more and stared at Pitch his brows furrowing. He was mouthing something again.

"What?"

Let go. Jack lipped to him sick little sounds of his tongue working in his mouth emphasizing his intent.

"Why?"

Trust me.

"Fine. If you kill yourself now it's not on my head then." And he let go.

Jack mimed quickly with his hands a pen writing on paper. Pitch easily understood that and stood retrieving the utensils from the other room quickly. He handed them to Jack and watched as he fumbled to grip the two objects. Pitch grabbed a book off of a side table and held it under the paper for Jack to write. Shakily he wrote out in big sloppy barely legible letters 'bandages' and 'hot water'.

Nodding, Pitch set the book, paper, and pencil on a nightstand beside the pillow bed and left to retrieve what Jack requested with a put upon sigh.

He started a fire in the fireplace in his bedroom and set the kettle over it to heat while he went to a kitchen-y like room to retrieve a basin and cloth. There was also where he had taken to dumping Jack's gifts of gauze and gathered up everything he could fit into the bowl and his arms before returning to his bedroom to wait for the water to adequately heat.

He took to sorting out the medical supplies on his coffee table while he waited. Then, he heard a crack. He froze.

Another crack.

The sound of breaking ice.

Gods.

It took him less than a second to storm back in to Jack's room read y to shout a lecture at the ingrate for not bothering to listen to a single word he said and after all the effort he went through to take care of him and clean him and house him and-

The sight stopped him in his tracks, his mouth falling open.

Jack was fingers deep into the cast on his neck. He managed to sit up, kicking half of the pillows on his bed halfway across the floor. His eyelids were fluttering in barely held onto consciousness, only the whites showing again as he kept scraping and chipping away at the cast, hunks of it strewn across the pillows. It was too cold for it to melt. That was the point!

After the moment of shock, Pitch stalked over to him forcefully pulled his hands away again by the wrists. Jack stiffened at the contact and slowly his pupils rolled back to blink at Pitch. Tears were crusting at the corners of his eyes and the pair sat there momentarily at a complete loss for what to do.

Finally, Pitch found his anger again and squeezed both of Jack's wrists tightly. "What the hell, you imbecile!"

Jack had the nerve to glare at him. To glare! Trying to yank his hands back, Pitch fought with him momentarily before releasing them. They immediately fell into Jack's lap and he could tell the kid was in pain. Idiot. Jack was a giant idiot.

"What the hell are you trying to achieve with this?" He questioned stepping back. Jack dramatically rolled his eyes and shot a finger in the direction of the nightstand pointing to his scrawled note. Oh yeah. Standing up straight, Pitch glared right back at the kid before turning with a huff to get the stuff asked of him.

It didn't take him even a minute to return with the steaming basin of hot water and bandages tucked under his arms, but there Jack was with his hands at his neck again able to pry away more of his life-saving cast.

He was wincing now. He must be getting close to skin. Stilling a moment, he looked up at Pitch who frowned back at him still confused by what he was trying to do. Then, Jack motioned for him to come closer with one hand as he pressed his other into the hole in the ice at his neck.

Pitch kicked aside pillows and knelt down beside Jack resting the basin on his knee. Jack smiled weakly before dipping his fingers into the steaming water and flinching back almost immediately. Too hot. Grimacing, Jack motioned from the water to his neck while making eye contact with Pitch again.

"You seriously want me to melt this off of you? Your head is going to roll away." Pitch quirked an almost grin at the image, then a full one when he watched Jack try to huff in annoyance with no breath to perform the action. The glare he got for that was also rather amusing.

Nevertheless, Pitch sat properly in the pillows and rested the basin in his lap before wringing out the cloth and going to dab at the cast. The air in the room was still ridiculously cold, so Pitch didn't know how effective this would be, but he complied to the request anyways.

After a few minutes of smoothing out the ragged edges of what Jack had already broken away, He shifted and gingerly dipped his fingers into the warm water again. This time he didn't pull away, but his eyes did clench shut in pain. Pitch was still completely lost on what Jack was doing.

When he glanced down to rewet the cloth then he noticed that the water in the basin turned red. He looked back up at Jack's neck and found that they hadn't reached the bloody ice yet, so then-?

Jack's fingers were bleeding. He was forcing his hands to thaw out and the water was warming his blood enough to unfreeze and escape. Jack was actually frozen almost completely solid. Pitch sat back and gaped.

"Jack-"

He couldn't shake his head, the ice wouldn't let him. Instead Pitch almost felt his eyes forced up to look right into Jack's. Jack stared back, completely serious. Every eye roll and exasperated glare disappeared. His eyes spoke that he was solemn, determined to this, and scared.

"Jack…" Pitch started again and was reaching for his hands.

Jack pulled them away before Pitch could grab him, water sloshed over his lap and the pillows. Deftly, He balled both hands into fists and pounded them in to either side of his cast before Pitch could even blink to fathom to stop him.

The warm water weakened the ice and the cast splintered and cleaved into shards.

Jack swooned and slumped back against the wall, his skull cracking against the stone. Pitch surged forwards his hands hovering at a complete loss for what to do.

"Jack? Jack what-" Pitch was practically flailing for something to do.

Slowly, Jack's eyes fluttered back open. He nodded his head forwards, then slowly to one side, stopping abruptly. He broke the cast, his head was free, and the wall was the only thing preventing it from tipping right off. He wasn't bleeding, his fingers had already stopped, the blood congealing, frozen once again.

Slowly, Jack lifted both hands to his face. Pitch marveled that he could even do this. For all intents and purposes he should be completely and irrevocably dead, but here he was physically trying to complete Pitch's half-finished job.

Pitch was stunned into inaction as he watched one of Jack's hands brace his skull while the other wormed fingers into the shards of ice lingering around his neck. He gently pulled the ice away flinching and wincing at each piece he extracted until the deep gash was mostly exposed.

Pitch frowned, nearly sick at the sight. Jack had expertly caught himself in the swing of Pitch's scythe right by the throat, resulting in this catastrophe. Pitch tried to disintegrate the weapon before it could damage but the speed of it all left him reeling for hour long seconds as we watched Jack fall, bloody. And now, here he was half conscious in his home digging into the gash with some sort of purpose.

Pausing, Jack pressed his palm to his neck and held his hand there. Slowly he added pressure and slushy blood squeezed out from between his fingers. He was trembling at the effort, what was he doing? He released the pressure and his body tensed. Jack pulled his hand from his neck, his fingers covered in blood. He glanced down at them momentarily, a deep frown pressing his lips down before thrusting his fingers directly into the wound.

Pitch gasped and sputtered reaching forwards.

He wrapped his hand around Jack's wrist again and tried to pull his hand out. He wouldn't release his grip inside his throat however and Pitch tightened his hold.

"Jack! What are you doing! This is madness!" He tried to make sense of it by shouting but Jack wasn't listening as violent trembles wracked his frame. Pitch tried to pull his hand away again and there was a little give, but still he wouldn't relent.

"Jack!"

Then, Jack's other hand fell from his cheek and weakly wrapped around Pitch's wrist holding his other hand. His fingers gripped surprisingly strong and pulled back on Pitch's wrist, in the direction he was trying to pull already to get Jack to release his neck. Was he-?

Pitch's eyes shot up to find Jack's, but they were once again rolling to the back of his head in a swoon. Jack was falling unconscious again and Pitch's hand was bloody but Jack was still trying pull with him. So Pitch yanked back again, a sloshy sucking sound accompanied the effort.

And Pitch pulled again, and the next thing he knew he was falling backwards pulling a limp and bloody body with him.

Something thunked against the stone floor and Pitch looked over at their hands, Jack's still tightly gripped in his own. A jagged clump of frozen blood had fallen from Jack's hand as the boy laid face down unconscious on top of Pitch. He, meanwhile, was gasping for breath shocked by what just happened, what he just did. Did he really? Was that? Moons.

He didn't dare to move, Jack's neck was now exposed, and seriously what was the kid thinking this was absolutely ludicrous. A few minutes passed and Pitch loosened his grip on Jack's wrist before lifting his arms into a loose hug around the boy. He laid there dazed a few more moments.

Jack twitched against him after a while and Pitch moved his hands to grip the boy's sides firmly to prevent him from doing something sudden and stupid that could probably tip his head right off his shoulders. Soon, Jack's hand that got trapped between them weakly clenched into Pitch's robes and a horrid suckling hiss that Pitch couldn't even conjure into his best nightmares slid from Jack's lips.

A small shudder ran down the kid's spine which then erupted into a constant trembling as air shallowly and choppily gusted from his nose and mouth. He was breathing again. That really was what happened. Pitch had pulled a hunk of ice from the wound in Jack's throat that was blocking up his windpipe. Jack literally shoved his fingers into his neck to pull out frozen blood to breathe again like he knew what he was doing. Did he know what he was doing? Was this not the first time he was nearly beheaded? Pitch shuddered at the thought. Jack didn't scar, who knows how many wounds he suffered after three-hundred years.

Jack's grip tightened into Pitch's robe and he was pulled from his thoughts to carefully look at his charge. He couldn't move his head still, the wound was preserved and still fresh from the ice, and Jack was weak with exertion from breaking the cast and unblocking his throat. Not to mention the shivering weak sobs he was crying now that he was able to breathe to properly express them.

Awkwardly, Pitch loosened his grip on Jack and smoothed his hands down his sides and back up slowly. Jack's breathes slowly became deeper and a little less labored, was his esophagus and surrounding tissue healing already? He was loath to shift Jack and aggravate the wound to find out.

Instead, the boy lay atop the boogeyman until he fell back into an exhausted unconsciousness, and Pitch proceeded to let him sleep like that for hours.


	3. The Owing of One

Jack had proceeded to sleep for another two days. Pitch quickly tired of being a bed and eventually had to figure out a way to move him and bandage him simply to free himself.

He figured it out with the help of his shadows and soon had Jack propped back into fresh pillows, his neck bandaged so thick it could compete with the creeping ice cast his body had first formed. Ice eventually crept back over the gauze as well making it stiff.

Now, he slept on, a light snowfall drifting down through the hole in the ceiling making a neat circular pile of it in the middle of the stone floor. Jack was also breathing again in a regular fashion and the flinches of pain were becoming less frequent. Pitch noted that color was returning to his skin as well. He no longer completely resembled a frozen corpse, thank the moon, and the deep circles around his eyes were less prominent.

Also, his fingers had started bleeding. It was a rather curious phenomenon regarding Jack that Pitch couldn't figure the reason for. He scraped the tips of them nearly off when he was scrabbling at the ice and they didn't bleed then. He thawed them out and they began to bleed in the warm water, but froze back up when he removed them. And now they were bandaged just like his neck slowly turning the cloth red (also like his neck). The only differences in the situation from now and before were Jack's lack of connection with his staff and the fact that he was breathing. Pitch made a note to ask him on it when he woke.

Which happened in a similar fashion as the first time on the eve of the second day.

Pitch was practically yanked back into Jack's designated room by all the fear rolling off the boy. First it was similar relived horrors of drowning and saving no one, he was hung up on not being able to breathe again but soon was gasping and wheezing for air no longer denied him from the ice.

Those fears soon melted away as Jack began hacking and coughing gripping at the stiffly frozen fabric holding his neck together. His bandaged fingers gave him no purchase however, and Pitch was quickly kneeling in the pillows pulling his hands away from himself once again as rasping coughs wracked his thin body violently.

The fit subsided after more worrisome hacks and blood began dribbling from the corners of Jack's lips as he slumped forward resting his forehead against Pitch's chest. Pitch let go of Jack's wrists and pushed him upright by the shoulders to find his eyes.

"What do you need?" Was all he could manage with a deep frown.

Jack pointed over to the side of him to the paper and pen.

"More water and bandages? I think I've had enough of your kind of first-aid, Jack-"

Jack rolled his eyes and pointed again, a raspy set of quick liquidy breaths escaping his lips with the gesture. Was that a laugh?

Pitch sighed and propped Jack upright in the pillows before retrieving the writing tools and book to write on and handed them to Jack. The kid, meanwhile was wiping at his mouth with his bandaged fingers absorbing the blood there turning his hands red. He took the pen awkwardly and began to write, staining the paper as well. Pitch grinned a little at how much the note looked like the last message of a victim of a brutal crime. Then, he frowned, because really…that's kind of what it was.

Jack flipped the note around and held it up for Pitch. It read 'a drink and a thaw'. Pitch frowned and refused to take the bloodied note, so Jack soon set it back on the book.

"A thaw? Aren't you supposed to stay cold?" Jack grinned up at him with bloody teeth and minutely shook his head 'no' as much as he could with the thick neck brace prohibiting his movement.

"Fine. Can you walk?"

Jack just shrugged awkwardly and held his hands up like a child waiting for their parents.

With a put-upon groan Pitch leaned over and hooked the kid under his arms hoisting him to his feet. Jack immediately grabbed onto Pitch's arms to steady himself and Pitch could tell he had a head-rush from the sudden movement. After a moment of consideration, Pitch instead picked Jack up fully to carry him. Jack took the idea easily and wrapped his legs around Pitch's waist and his arms around his neck as he got a free ride out of the Nightmare King to the next room over.

The temperature change was dramatic between the two rooms and Pitch felt Jack shiver at the difference and rather quickly his robes were becoming damp as he walked them over to his sitting area in front of the fireplace. He sat Jack on the sofa facing the mantle and watched him a moment as he tried to look down on himself but was prevented from the bandages. His hands came and rubbed at each arm lightly and Pitch could see a thin sheen of moisture on his skin as he really was thawing.

"Is this too warm?" he questioned taking a step back and holding his hands behind his back unsure of how to act.

Jack looked up a bit surprised and smiled that bloody smile again and mouthed a 'no' which had drips of red once again down his chin. Oh right, the drink.

"Hold on." Was all he managed as he stepped away into the shadows to retrieve what was asked.

When he came back with a glass, the basin, and a cloth a minute or so later, Jack had his feet up on the coffee table and he was picking at the pants Pitch had put him in a confused little furrow of his brow expressing his concern.

Alerted by Pitch's return, Jack removed his feet and sat back up a pleased little smile making him look practically manic with the way he left the blood on his face. Pitch handed him the basin and cloth and went for the kettle to fill up the glass.

He turned back around and Jack was already reaching for the water having spit out the blood that flooded his mouth into the basin. Pitch handed it to him wordlessly and watched as Jack rinsed his mouth with most of the water and then tried to drink some of it. Which, as Pitch was not so surprised, ended up with another bloody coughing fit and the basin filled nearly halfway as Jack had to rinse and spit again.

"Not too bright are you." Pitch commented as he sat in one of his chairs to the side of the coffee table.

Jack just looked over and raised an eyebrow in an obvious gesture saying 'neither are you.'

Pitch ignored the silent jab and ran his hand through his hair instead.

"So what now?" he asked.

Jack held up a finger to wait a moment and Pitch obliged. He watched as the boy took steady breathes in and out now, his mouth free from blood finally so he could breathe through it. After a moment, Pitch realized he was trying to work his tongue and jaw again for speech. He could only manage grotesque little noises and hisses for a while as he figured out which motions were available to him with half of the muscle on his neck slowly knitting back together.

Soon, Jack turned towards Pitch and whispered "You owe me."

"I think we need to have talk about your priorities, Jack."


	4. A Comfortable Shadow

Jack was milking it by this point.

Yeah, everything hurt, yeah he almost got killed, and yeah he could still barely speak, but he didn't mind the price if this was how he got Pitch to act because of it!

The first week was obviously rough, hell he wasn't even really conscious until the end of it after he started breathing again.

Now, they were two days in to the second week and Pitch was probably the best company Jack had ever had.

The guy was torn between wanting to kick him out every hour and restraining himself because he felt guilty. Guilty! Pitch Black was actually showing remorse! Jack was stunned and warmed by the gesture. The Nightmare King was at his beck and call for the majority of it, and even though he was souring on the whole butler bit quickly now, Jack was working it for what he could.

He didn't need to eat, but Pitch brought him food. Really considerate in that regard too. It was all mushy stuff that was easy to swallow, and honestly, it really did help, the extra energy was a boon to his healing. And apparently he cooked about half of it too? The guy would never let Jack watch him make it, but sometimes things were thrown at him that just reeked of home cooking.

The conversation was really nice as well. Jack had to admit that this might have been the worst injury to happen in his immortality, and the two spent hours assessing the wounds and pains they both received at each other's hand through their various years of fighting. It was like a highlight reel of their relationship, and Jack figured it helped Pitch a little bit to not wallow in his concern for the wrong he did to Jack.

And really it was mostly Jack's fault anyways. He should have dodged, or watched his back better, Pitch shouldn't have been able to get the jump on him so easily. Jack had been distracted, by what he doesn't remember, but still it happened. They weren't supposed to pull punches in their fights and just because Pitch hadn't, didn't mean it was his fault. Jack also spent a good chunk of time trying to explain this to the man, but it seemed like it never really sank in.

Regardless. Jack was enjoying his time in constant company immensely and already planned to hang around the lair for as long as possible until his excuses of feeling weak or not being fully healed were run dry and he was chased out with a fight.

Pitch really didn't seem to mind the company either. At least Jack figured as much, because apparently he wasn't leaving his lair to go scare kids unless Jack was asleep himself and when he was awake, even if Pitch wasn't hovering around full of well-disguised nervous energy, Jack knew he was somewhere within his home keeping close track of his guest.

This was also a great opportunity to explore the lair as much as he wanted. He found that whenever he wasn't in Pitch's direct line of sight that a nightmare would follow him practically wherever he went. Which was a bit annoying, but ultimately convenient because he could get the creature to lead him back when he got himself utterly lost down some shadowy labyrinth-like passageway.

Pitch's home was just as big, if not bigger, than the Warren or the North Pole. It was obviously more sinister and scary, as that was Pitch's nature, but Jack learned to shrug off all of the little frights and traps that lurked around corners and in alcoves. Really the place was quite cluttered. Mangled metal things littered vast cavernous rooms, there were old decaying armors scattered about, broken furniture, ruined objects of all sorts. The cages that hung in the main cavern made cameos elsewhere as broken heaps in corners, and sometimes as giant lanterns in huge halls that had long been blown out. Really, the place was fascinating. There was also an inordinately large amount of random rooms with different kinds of beds. Jack laughed. No wonder Pitch was so sick of hiding under them. He kept 'em everywhere.

Not to mention, Pitch was a surprisingly cleanly person despite the disrepair of his general home. He had a few rooms he frequented most often that consisted of his bedroom, a kitchen of sorts, this great washroom, a few parlors crammed with furniture and knickknacks, and a grand library that seemed to continue forever into the shadows. All of these rooms were in well order, except for the stupid amounts of nightmare sand that littered everything.

These little things drove home for Jack just what kind of time period Pitch had spent alone in his home. The amount of accumulated crap was one tell, but the man himself displayed a myriad of little talents one just didn't pick up. Cooking for example, or that vast library. Instruments of all sorts were wedged into corners and Jack had a suspicion that Pitch could probably play all of them. It was warming to find that the King of Nightmares had so many human pursuits under his belt, and he justified himself sharply one evening as Jack prodded him with an endless stream of inane questions.

"Know your enemy." He said sourly as the pair of them sat in his bedroom in front of a smoldering fire.

"Which enemy?" Jack whispered in question, not bothering to try working his vocal chords tonight, even if he should be.

"Everyone of course."

Jack shook in a breathless chuckle. "So knowing the harpsichord is a battle tactic?"

"Music is very evocative, it is a great platform from which to build a nightmare, and sometimes a trauma."

"Oh." Jack replied and rested back across the couch that had quietly been claimed as his. "Well I get that I suppose. Horror movies are nothing without that heart beat and eerie screeching stuff."

"Precisely. That discordant crescendo that sounds out imminent peril, the bass like footsteps right behind you, minor chords, scraping fingernails down chalkboards, sawing apart violins. Wonderful stuff." Pitch said grinning and relaxing back into his high-backed chair that became his routine spot when they occupied this room.

"You're so weird."

"No. I just take pleasure in my job."

Jack grinned and idly picked at the thin bandage around his neck. The wound was basically healed by now, just itchy scar tissue on the outside. The inside was another matter, and while things were pretty much all back in the right places, the muscles and flesh were still new and raw, easily tear-able at this point, as Jack was well aware.

The pair dozed in the comfortable heat of the room. Pitch brought some book out of the shadows to read while Jack relaxed into the couch watching the embers glow in the hearth, which was still somewhat of a novelty for him, being inside a home and all. He was much recovered now and able to regulate his body temperature to find the heat of the room comfortable but not stifling.

Indoors was nice. This was by far the longest stretch he had spent inside since becoming a guardian. Hell, Jack wasn't even really sure if he spent so much time inside the North Pole back then. He was so excited to just be there that it all felt like a blur now. He also wore out his welcome there rather quickly with the Yeti's and even the elves eventually. North tried to humor his energy but Jack could tell he rubbed the man's nerves raw. He was doing it with Pitch too. He couldn't help it really, excitement was his thing. Though Pitch seemed to have the patience of water. Not a huge wonder considering the place he lived in and his center. Jack mused about how patient fears could be the worst ones sometimes. He promptly refused to voice that opinion though. Pitch would get way too smug if Jack acknowledged it.

The Boogeyman only seemed to wear out when Jack talked about a mile a minute and asked about a hundred questions. If he were silent Pitch could sit with him all day (something Jack tried but only succeeded about 4 hours of before he just about burst with boredom).

His mind wandered away from that eventually as the heat made him drowsy. He languidly thought back to their earlier fights a few years ago, his confusion, Pitch's. laying here in Pitch's bedroom, a foot dangling off his couch, the other propped on the armrest, made all of that seem so far away, like another distant memory that didn't really feel like his. He understood the anxieties he had back then, really, a lot of them still hung with him, but now he just couldn't bring himself to fuss. There really was no need to worry himself silly about the opinions of the Guardians. They would definitely agree with Jack. Just look at Pitch now, a comfortable shadow lounging in a chair with a book peaceful as you please.

Jack liked being his friend.

The whole solution was just a better funnel for all of that pent up energy. So what if Pitch had more believers than him now? Neither of them could compare to the numbers of any of the other Guardians, and Jack's strength was exponential with his own believers he picked up. And the belief made Pitch happy, content. Jack had never really asked, but if what Pitch had said back at Easter at the tooth palace was true, then really, everything he claimed to want was being granted now, and no one was hurting for it. The Guardians learned what it was like to not be believed in, and Pitch had his own believers again. So it wasn't the 'Dark Ages' relived, but adaptations had to be made to find continued relevance in the ever evolving human world.

He wouldn't trade this set-up for anything. The duels were great. He felt like he was doing some good. He was finally doing something right and he was needed and he was the only one able to do it too. The other Guardians were busy, they had bigger commitments. Surely if Jack ever told them they would find the whole arrangement the perfect solution.

He grinned dopily. Problems seemed so far away at the moment. He let them drift out of his head to fall asleep.


	5. The Cleanest of Cuts

A deep bass whump shook him awake.

Jack sat up slowly, looking around. Pitch was gone, his book left open on his chair. That was a bit odd, Jack never saw Pitch abandon a book like that. He made a point to always reshelf them.

Another whump vibrated through the room, something glass tinkling as it shivered from the movement.

Jack stood. There was no nightmare in the room watching him. Actually, there was a conspicuous lack of glittering black sand piling about the place as well. Not good.

Jack immediately went back to his room and retrieved his staff. He barely touched it the past week and it already felt different in his palm. Ice bloomed up the wood and Jack hopped into the air, wobbling, still unsteady in recovery.

Whisking the arctic air in through the ceiling, Jack pushed open the doors and glided down the passageways he had become quickly familiar with over the past months.

A third boom and grit loosened from the stony ceilings.

A nervous tightness was in his chest but he refused to think the worst until he had proof.

Then, he rounded the corner.

It was worse than worse.

Gold sand whirled through the main cavern, it trickled from hanging cages like broken hourglasses, it lit up corners and crevices, black crept through it like creeping oil. The gold sand fought back tainting the black in swirling tendrils just as much.

Jack felt his stomach drop out from inside him as he took to the air trying to find the ancient rivals. His breath was already caught in his chest coming in quick shallow bursts.

Another crash, so much louder now that Jack was in the same room. It rattled a hooked cage from the very ceiling and it fell crashing horribly adding to the chaos.

He swept over to the source of the noise as fast as he could just in time to find Pitch slip from an indent in the stone, gold sand glittering.

Sandy was on a cloud, whips drawn, his dreamsand regrouping back into his cloud as he watched Pitch fall, fury darkening his face.

"Wait!" Jack tried to say something, his voice wasn't loud enough.

He tried to fly over, but a fleet of shrieking Nightmares bowled through him spinning him out of the way. Pitch was back in the air on his own platform of darkness, scythe in hand viciously charging Sandy who took it in stride.

"Stop!" He tried flailing his arms and cooling the air, his magic wasn't quite back up to par, concentrating on still healing his body, instead of willed manifestations. In a different situation Jack might have joked about knowing how Sandy felt being ignored. Now though, he was desperate and quickly getting anxious. He had to stop them, they shouldn't be – Sandy doesn't know…Pitch is Jack's – This isn't a duel it's real!

"Stop! Please wait!" He flew in closer shouting, whirling sand getting into his eyes. They hadn't even noticed him! This hurt. His throat was already sore.

"Pitch! Sandy!" Jack tried louder, shielding his eyes.

A tidal wave of black surged from below and clashed with gold erupting into another deafening boom. It vibrated through Jack's ribs and he found himself gasping, shocked from the force, his breath shoved from his lungs nearly winded by the whump of sound. Gasping back air, Jack choked on the flying grit and found himself hacking and coughing for breath. It tore his throat back open and he felt his cold blood in his throat and mouth as he tried to cough and spit it out as quickly as possible. He needed to stop this, recovering magic be damned.

Gripping his staff in both hands, Jack desperately concentrated, the arctic wind that followed him inside whipping up into a near tornado seizing every color of sand in its grip.

"STOP!"

And with a shattering roar of his own, every particle froze and burst in the air from Jack's magic chaotically out of control fueled by a bitter arctic gale. Everything on him froze, the tears from the sand in his eyes, his hair, the blood that turned into icicles on his chin, and his clothes stiff and nearly solid.

Hissing sand as it fell from the air was the only sound over Jack's ragged wet breaths. The wind pulled back and he nearly wobbled right out of its caress. It caught him though, roughly, still giddy from the outburst, and Jack tried to find his previously fighting friends.

Pitch found him first as large warm hands wrapped around Jack's neck, fingertips pressing lightly into the bloodied bandage searching, for Jack had surely ripped open his neck again. His warm body pressed up against Jack's back and he found himself slumping against it, letting it hold him up. His feet found ground…no, sand, and Pitch wordlessly broke away the bloody icicles from Jack's jaw. He was too drained and in pain to care that Pitch Black was silently concerned, taking care of him without any preamble.

Warm light filled up Jack's woozy attention and Sandy was instantly inches from his face, horror and worry marring his features. Jack frowned. The little guy should never look anything but happily drowsy. Jack almost forgot what just happened and why as the pain in his throat and effort of such a powerful magic attack drained him nearly completely, all his concentration into keeping himself upright.

"Shhhh." Jack slurred and tried to decipher the whirring images above the wishing star's head. He lifted up his hand that was way heavier than it should be and wiped drool from his mouth. Oh, it was blood. He was getting into a habit of having his mouth filled with blood…

Tiny warm hands gripped his cheeks and held his head up, Large hands tensed cradling his neck. He giggled.

"Iz kay, Sanny." He grinned, touching his hand to a golden wrist.

"He's fine, Sanderson. He'd be better if you didn't show up."

The round sun-like face frowned in anger that was turning to fury and Jack frowned, too.

"No." He mumbled reaching his fingers to Sandy's lips and smudging them to the side to get that smile back. He should be smiling.

"No figh-ng," Jack slurred. "Ahm good, Sanny."

Good, the smile was back. Just a little. It was progress. Jack could teach him what to do later. Now he wanted to…Oh…Sandy was here. They were waiting for Sandy for a week. Jack had to explain…Sandy would be upset. He perked up a little bit and smiled.

"Sanny, yu'll ne'er belie'e it. Pith he…ahaha… Pith cut ma 'ead clean off."

His sun's face paled and the smile was instantly gone. Before Jack could even think of smudging it back into place, gold flooded his vision and then blackness.


End file.
